


Oh, Ilse, My Ilse

by bareunloveliness



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Dead Poets Society - Freeform, F/F, Fluff, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 05:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16758430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bareunloveliness/pseuds/bareunloveliness
Summary: Ilse helps inspire Wendla through a tough bit of Writer's Block





	Oh, Ilse, My Ilse

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by "Question Mark" on Tumblr.

" _ Long distance doesn't have to be long _ ," Ilse read aloud, lazily flopped over Wendla's floral mint sheets.  _ "It's all about the distance.  _ Wendla, baby, honey, darling, sweetie, I love you, but this isn't your best work."

"I know, that's what I've been trying to tell you!" she groaned, leaning back against her leather desk chair. It was her dad's, back when people had 'computer rooms' with inexplicable Beanie Babies on their desks and Charlie the Unicorn booted up to watch. She got to take it when they turned that room into a nursery for Ina, who hadn't yet moved out, despite being on her second child. The first, Greta, now lived in the nursery which slowly transformed into a child's room, as she was about four years old. It was a tough economy. "I used to be so good at this, but I just feel like all my talent has been like, drained."

Ilse smiled, glad that someone she cared about so much at least recognized that she had produced good work and was proud of it. She, on the other hand, had a habit of burning her paintings in bonfires without a second thought. "It's just writer's block, babe, you're going to be fine. You have to change perspective. Have you ever seen Dead Poets Society?"

"No, what's that?" she asked. 

"Jesus fuck, I must educate you. Another day," Ilse shook her head. "Whatever, I'm going John Keating your ass. Get up."

"But I'm-"

"Get up, Wendla!" 

After a moment, the brunette stood up from her chair. The blonde, with a very close buzzcut, stood as well, but squatted onto the ground. "You must look at things from different angles," she said, peering up at her girlfriend who appeared to be a mystical angel from this angle, the curtains behind her seeming to protrude from her like wings with the sunset illuminating a halo around her curls. "Stand on your desk."

It was old and wooden, a sturdy gift from her grandparents when she was younger. It could easily hold her weight, but she hadn't sat on it in years. She'd never stood on it before. The ceilings of her bedroom weren't that high, but the sense of absurdity that stems from standing on your desk tempted her. She was curious as ever, something Ilse hoped never changed, and pushed herself off her ottoman onto the desk, scrambling to her feet.

As expected, she had to hunch down, a few inches taller than the ceiling. "Why am I doing this?" Wendla asked, grinning at the ridiculousness of the situation. That stupid toothy grin was the best part of this to Ilse.

"You're looking at the world differently. What do you see from up there?"

"I see you and my carpet."

"What if I wasn't me? What would I be?"

"What do you mean if you weren't you? You are you!"

"And if I wasn't? If there was something in my place, what would be in the center of your floor, gazing up at you?" Ilse asked, pushing Wendla to make creative choices.

"A- a discarded stuffed animal. One that I haven't seen in years, one that I left at a grocery store when I was six and thinks that I betrayed it on purpose," she found herself saying, thinking about a lamb she used to own. Her mother, ever the Christian, named it "Rachel" for her, even though she called it "Curly" when she could.

Ilse didn't know about Curly, as that was never something brought up, but she could tell she was on her way to making a breakthrough. "Okay, and how does the animal feel? Vengeful? Hurt?"

"Lost," Wendla answered. "I only have fuzzy memories of her, and she only has fuzzy memories of me. We remember spending time together, but have no idea how the time was spent. She doesn't know how she came back or how she's supposed to react to see me."

"We're spending too much time on the stuffed animal, new concept!" Ilse shrieked, lifting Wendla off the desk with her hands around the other's waist. The girls giggled and spun around the room, a childhood bedroom transforming into a black sheet of paper before their eyes. "New angle!"

Wendla thought for a quick second before hiding in her closet, the darkness enveloping her. Her eyes played tricks, a ballet of blurry lights seeming to dance before her. "What do you see?" Ilse called, pressing her face against the wooden door. "No, wait! What do you hear?"

Ilse said nothing, letting Wendla hear the silence. "The ocean?" she suggested.

"Think bigger; what's the last thing you could possibly be hearing right now in your closet?"

"The circus," she said. "I can hear the ringmaster and the popcorn machines."

Ilse closed her eyes, joining into the fantasy. "No, that's not a popcorn machine, what's inside

instead?" 

"The lamb, the stuffed animal!" Wendla shouted, the images clear as day. "It's a claw machine, and the lamb is inside. I don't know if it's the same one I lost until i see that half of its ear is missing. I spend all my money trying to win it, and the sun begins to set as the fair closes and I only have a dollar left. I don't win the lamb, I win the frog next to it."

Ilse was at the edge of her seat, sitting on the floor outside the closet. "And?"

"I was disappointed. The frog tells me, with its sad old eyes, that it's been in that machine for years. The lamb was only just added, but hadn't stopped talking about me in the months since its arrival. The frog had never heard of such love before and was thrilled to be coming home with me." As she fabricated the story, the tenses changed and so did the image in her mind. The fair was both inside and outdoors, closing and open. She was alone in an empty crowd full of people. 

Ilse bit her lip, sensing that the breakthrough was at its climax. "And?"

"And the frog noticed that I wasn't excited. He told me that he can't give me the lamb and I can't win it. It's the fair's last day. He hopes that I can love him half as much as I loved the lamb. I bring him home, still dejected, but tender and loving towards him. Then, little Greta sees him."

Ilse felt the story coming to an end. "And?"

"She takes him from me and I'm a little sad, but I know that she will love him more than I. She never had a lamb and he is going to be hers." Wendla breathed a sigh of relief. "The end."

Ilse opened the closet, helping Wendla to her feet. "That's how you write a damn story," she said with a smile. Wendla kissed her on the cheek, thanking her for whatever the hell just happened.

It wasn't quite a children's book, but Wendla sat down and wrote the short story, never wanting to stop. It was a crazy, almost unbelievable day, but the frog could say the same thing.

**Author's Note:**

> listen im a slut for dps  
> Requests and/or comments can be written below or sent to my Tumblr @honeybeebecki.


End file.
